Trust
by Dance Elle Dance
Summary: She curls in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, praying that he doesn't snap and kill her this time - but, for some unfathomable reason, there's a part of her that believes he won't. JasonWhitney, set during Ft13: 2009, oneshot


_**Disclamer: **__I don't own Friday the 13th._

_**Summary: She curls in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, praying that he doesn't snap and kill her this time - but, for some unfathomable reason, there's a part of her that believes he won't. JasonWhitney, set during Ft13: 2009, oneshot**_

_Well, this is my first time writing for this fandom! I've been wanting to write something for this for a very long time, and here is my first attempt! I tried to think of other pairings to write for, but this one just stuck in my head and wouldn't let me __**not**__ write about it. There will be more Ft13 fanfics to come, with various pairings, of course! I hope that y'all enjoy this first fic of mine! _

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**Trust**

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A drop of water falls from its precarious position on the ceiling and lands on her knee.

Whitney gives an involuntary shudder, wipes the offending droplet away, and then places her hand to her forehead. It is a small comfort, the fact that somewhere, out there, it is raining. Somewhere, out there, things are still continuing as normal, despite the fact that she has been captive for...

All her thoughts leave her then, because, honestly, she does not know how long she has been here.

Days, months, years... she does not know. It feels like a lifetime that she has been here, cramped into the corner, frightened at even the smallest, most insignificant sounds.

She has no idea why he has not killed her yet.

That is the only thing she can think of, most days. Her mortality, as fragile as the thinnest of threads, is controlled by him. He can be violent some days, placid the next. His violence is never taken out on her, though, for reasons unbeknownst to her. He had been more than happy to take out his anger on her friends. Though, she remembers the locket, and the picture that looked like her, and maybe she understands.

Just _maybe _she sympathizes.

She sighs and runs her hands over her hair, wet and grimy just like the rest of her, feeling a frustration take over her at her helplessness. Whitney doesn't know anything about where she is, or how to get out. She has a general idea as to where her captor enters and exits, but there could be multiple points she doesn't know about. This place...his lair, if she dares call it that, feels like a crypt, where she would rot and die with no one knowing where she was at the end of it.

Whitney remembers her mother, sick and unable to care for herself. She remembers her brother, strong and always with a kind word for anyone. Oh, she misses them so much it hurts.

Her captor is gone now. Out doing what, she has no idea, but she really doesn't want to know. If what he did to her friends was any indication, she never wants to know what his extracurricular activities consist of. Whitney dreads the moment he comes back, either with a sack of supplies stolen from his...latest batch of victims, or with nothing but an angry set to his shoulders.

After all this time spent with him, Whitney would have thought she would know more about him. Instead, she knows nothing more than his name.

_Jason._

It was the name she got from the carved headboard in the old cabin. The name she had tested out on him the first time she woke up in this place. The recognition in his eyes, hidden beneath the sack-like mask, was instantaneous, as if he hadn't been called that in ages. It was almost enough for her to pity him.

Almost.

There is a sound, a faint thud that has become all too familiar. She doesn't even jolt at the suddenness of it. Her back straightens and her eyes lift in search of the figure that has become commonplace in her existence. There he is, looking even more frightening than usual, the bag over his head an identifier - as if it could be anyone other than _him_.

Whitney shivers. She's not sure what time of year it is now. It feels cold every day. Maybe it is due to her the place where she is captive, all dank and dirty. Maybe it is because of the climate around her. Or, just maybe, it is because of his presence, of the fact she can see his dark eyes through the covering over his head, and maybe she sees a bit of humanity in him when he looks at her, if anything.

_Or,_ Whitney surmises, _maybe I've just lost whatever sanity I've had left._

Her thoughts are cut short when she realizes he is approaching her. He always does this after he gets back from...wherever he goes out to. Whitney doesn't like thinking about it. Thinking about what he does in his spare time means thinking about what he did to her best friends. About what he could possibly do to her. Just because he hasn't killed her yet doesn't mean he won't in the future.

Her reaction is a reflex, like a dog that has known nothing but abuse in its lifetime. She curls in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, praying that he doesn't snap and kill her this time - but, for some unfathomable reason, there's a part of her that believes he won't.

That part is irrational, she knows. Picture or no picture, sentimentality or no sentimentality, Jason is a killing machine, and Whitney can never forget that, no matter how much time she spends cooped up in the same vicinity as him.

He walks toward her, silent, his heavy boots making no sound on the earth beneath his feet. There is something in his hand, and for a shocking moment she thinks he might have brought one of his victims home - _Home? _she thinks in shock. _Since when is this a home?_ - and is going to frighten her with it until he places a burlap sack at her feet.

Her shackles do not limit her from reaching for the bag, but she does not approach it, either. Jason cocks his head to the side, uncertain as to why she flinches away, and then empties the bag himself.

Two oranges, an apple, and a bottle of water tumble from the sack. Whitney, not even thinking about the possibility of poison - Jason is not one for killing someone in such a subtle manner - grabs the oranges first and scarfs them down, greedy fingers tearing into the skin as juice stains her fingers. The apple follows, then the water, and a reluctant-sounding, satisfied sigh escapes her.

Finished with her meal - or lack thereof - Whitney finds that he is still staring at her, as if waiting for something. It is odd, but she finishes their ritual with the words that have become commonplace after the exchange of food.

"Thank you."

There is a moment in which Jason nods, hardly discernible in its slowness, and then turns, walking away from her and disappearing in the catacombs of his living quarters.

Whitney does not like thinking of the kindness in his eyes, hidden beneath the covering over his head, buried beneath the cool exterior of a killer. A monster should not be kind. A monster should not show compassion for his captive. A monster should not blur the line she had so carefully placed between them.

A monster should not make her heart race.

However, this monster does all of these things, and Whitney is left with nothing but a growing space in her heart that should not belong to him.

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_**End.**_


End file.
